Serce
by Elisabeta
Summary: **slash** Aragorn, Boromir and a sharp object :) More of a snippet than a fic, Boromir’s POV.


Title: Sercë  
  
Author: Lizzie (ravens_slavegirl@yahoo.co.uk)  
  
Rating: R  
  
Pairing: Aragorn/Boromir  
  
Disclaimer: Not mine, don't sue.  
  
Summary: Aragorn, Boromir and a sharp object :) More of a snippet than a fic, Boromir's POV.  
  
Notes: The title I found thanks to Acassha, on http://www.uib.no/people/hnohf/qlist.htm - it's the Quenya for blood (and I hope you can see the accent over the last E). Take heed - blood's a pretty strong theme here.  
  
Dedicated to everyone who's been so patient with me over my plotbunnies for the past few days :)  
  
***  
  
Sercë  
  
***  
  
The wet red of blood against my skin, unexpected and sharp, draws his eyes. They smoulder, burn as he watches me, fix me where I stand as he lays aside his book and moves toward me in the warm half-light of the room.  
  
His boot heels click soft against the floor; he moves like an animal, slow, graceful, eyes never leaving me, holding me here. And he does not stop until he is beside me, inches from me, 'til I can feel the heat of him and almost the beat of his heart. I am intoxicated by him, by the fire in his eyes and the heat and the smell of him; I long to taste him, feel his pulse under my tongue, run my fingers through his hair. But I cannot move, and I cannot think I would do this if I could move. Surely he is not for me.  
  
A flutter in my stomach as his fingers close around my wrist – he lifts it, slowly, close to his chest, but his eyes do not leave mine. His skin is warm and worn, rough against my own as his fingertips move over my veins. He lays my forearm against his chest, lays his free hand across it as I feel him take a breath beneath me. And his tongue darts out from between his lips, licks away the blood.  
  
His eyes seem questioning as he looks at me now, and when I do not stand back, his grip shifts from my wrist to my hand, his thumb pressed to my palm. He takes my bloody fingertip in past his lips, into his warm, wet mouth; the tip of his tongue traces soft circles on the injured pad as his teeth graze lightly above, his breath warm on my skin. I let my thumb trace his jaw and he does not move to stop me. And all the while I stare at him, unable to look away; he seems to smile. And as my doubts fade away, I find I return it, that small smile.  
  
But he drops my hand, steps away. He turns to the sword, to Narsil by his side, lifts the hilt from the floor where I had dropped it. I sigh and I turn, that flutter of excitement all but vanished from me. But before I can move I feel his hand on my shoulder and I turn back. He smiles a crooked smile at me, taps a shard of Narsil against the leather of my coat. I know what he is asking and I know my answer is yes.  
  
I follow him. I do not know the way yet he does, though how a Ranger may know the lay of Rivendell is beyond me. For now I do not care. I will follow him where he leads me; the skipping of my heart tells me I must. He knows the halls and corridors, every inch of this place and its stone paving, its painted walls. He moves easily, as though he is at home here, as I may walk in my home. I feel awkward, my clothes shabby, no beauty or grace in me to compare with that of the Elves. And here even this Ranger seems above me, possessed of some spirit I cannot fathom and do not myself possess.  
  
Yet despite my inadequacies, it seems he desires me. As I desire him.  
  
One weathered hand moves to open the heavy wooden door to his chamber, and I follow him inside. It seems dark here after the candlelight but my eyes adjust to the moonlight and I watch him move across the room, watch him strip away his shirt and drop it to the floor, the ends of his dark hair brushing the lean muscles of his shoulders. And I set about my own clothing, layers of leather and silks and mail, 'til they're all heaped at my feet and I'm standing bare-chested before him.  
  
We do not even linger long enough to remove our boots before he nods to the bed. So I walk across the room and sit at the edge, lift myself back as he walks toward me. I lie back and feel the weight of him over my hips, kneeling astride me. I look up and he is sitting there, watching me, tapping the shard against the nails of his left hand.  
  
He leans forward, leans down, bracing himself on one arm and the hand of the other hovering above my chest. He lowers his hand and I feel cool metal sharp against my skin. I push myself up on my forearms and watch as he draws it slowly down, a thin trail of red blossoming up behind.  
  
He bows his head, leans down and I feel the keen sting as his tongue touches the wound. He carefully licks away the blood and for a second he lifts his head, sees me watching him before he presses his lips to my bleeding chest. They come away reddened though it seems he does not care. And he must not, as he lowers his lips again, his teeth, tongue… he grazes, nips, licks, sucks at my skin. And one hand moves to my rake over a nipple, one moving to rest at my waist, fingers slipping beneath my belt. I can feel his bare skin on mine and I am torn between sensations – the wet warmth of his mouth, the rake of teeth and nails, the simple pressure of his palm. His hair brushing against my skin, beard against my chest. And that feeling inside as he glances up at me, meets my gaze with my blood on his mouth.  
  
He goes lower, cuts again over my ribs and kisses away the blood. I have seen my blood many times, from careless play in my youth torn on thorns and bleeding from grazed knees, to the battlefields of today. I have seen my blood on others, as they tended to my wounds. And yet… yet this is another thing entirely. I lie here in this place I do not know as I am cut by a man who before this night I had never met. And it feels right.  
  
I look down to see the moonlight in his eyes, to see my blood upon his lips; he smiles, moves forward, leans down with a hungry kiss. I twist my fingers in his hair, feel his hands in mine, on my neck, my cheeks as we kiss, as I lose myself in him… and this is right. He will hurt me and make me whole. This is right.  
  
***  
  
End  
  
*** 


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